


A mismatch of imperfections

by redsnake05



Category: Bandom, Hush Sound, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Gen, Implied Relationship, Other, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-02
Updated: 2010-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:36:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon and Greta keep missing each other, slipping past and never quite making it together at the right place or the right time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A mismatch of imperfections

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plumerri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumerri/gifts).



Brendon woke up with a headache and the soft tapping of keys in his ears. Fumbling for the pillow, he pulled it over his head and wished for speedy death.

"You're awake," said Greta. "Good. Here, have some painkillers."

Brendon struggled to a sitting position with his eyes still closed against the morning light and took the glass of water and pills without looking. Greta made an amused noise as Brendon handed back the glass and flopped back onto the bed.

"I could have given you anything," she said. "How trusting you are." Brendon flipped her off with the bare minimum of motion. All he wanted to do was lie still for a little longer, then he might not feel like his head was going to explode or his mouth was going to crawl off his face and die somewhere. Greta gave another unladylike snort of laughter and the tapping resumed. Brendon concentrated on his breathing.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

The first time Brendon saw Greta, he was halfway through a screaming fight with Ryan Ross and not about to concede ground just because their opening band had turned up and were staring at them. He couldn't even remember what it was about now, just that he'd been so angry, so _furious_ with Ryan that the words had spilled out without his permission. He could remember, though, the way Greta had looked at them both. It had been considering, maybe a little calculating, like the way Spencer sometimes looked at him.

He remembered other things about Greta from that day. How her skirt had swirled around her knees, and how she'd had a white flower pinned in her hair. When the argument was done, all the bands had played and Brendon had almost forgotten about it, she'd come and seated herself next to him. He'd thought she looked a little like a bird, inquisitive and interested in everything, searching for the things she needed and wanted. He could imagine her, making meaningless small talk until she found something she wanted from him. Some of his anger came rushing back, even though he knew it was irrational.

He kissed her, hard enough to hurt and careless, pulling back to see her blush and scramble up to find another drink. He hadn't cared. He'd thought she was only interested in things that were perfect and useful. He was useful only for his music, and his band had claim to that, even when they didn't want it and hated him for it.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Greta didn't move after giving Brendon the painkillers. Brendon was grateful. Jostling would be bad. He slowly felt the headache ease and risked opening one eye. It was still too bright, but he was hopeful that he'd soon be able to move without losing any of his limbs. He desperately needed to piss.

Rolling over carefully, Brendon sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He finally opened his eyes and blinked at the wall and out the window to the view of an alley. His boxers had twisted round his legs as he'd slept and he straightened them as he tottered to his feet and made it into the bathroom. He knew Greta would be laughing at him, so he carefully didn't glance in her direction. She loved to laugh, especially at him when he made an idiot of himself.

In the bathroom, Brendon rummaged for the spare toothbrush he knew she kept, wanting to see if the minty flavour would cut through the ashy residue that seemed to coat his mouth. He felt better, afterwards, more alert still after he'd splashed his face with cold water, drying off with a fluffy hand towel and avoiding looking at the way his eyes were dark rimmed and puffy, even though he'd been off tour for weeks. With the fading of his headache, his other pains were making themselves known between his shoulder blades and in the tightness in his throat.

Greta held a coffee out to him as he shuffled carefully back onto the bed. It was still steaming hot, even though she appeared not to have moved from her spot. It was perfect, thought Brendon, as he took a long, grateful sip. Greta's things always were.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Touring was hard. Everything got worn thin: tempers and strings, the knees of their jeans, all fraying and grimed with dirt. Greta managed to look like a princess every night on stage, and Brendon never saw the circles under her eyes for the make-up and the lights. Brendon watched her, wondering how to apologise. She'd avoided him since that first night, and he couldn't blame her. He'd known since the second morning. Spencer had made him coffee, sitting next to him on the tiny bench seat in the kitchen with one arm around his shoulder, silent and steadying against the swaying of the bus. All the hate and irrational hurt had ebbed away, leaving him quiet and ashamed.

When they were all packed up that night, waiting for the buses to rev up and leave, techs shouting final instructions and all the talent sprawled in lazy heaps in the largest dressing room, Brendon managed to squeeze onto the sofa next to her. Greta was texting, merely glancing at him with the tiniest of smiles as her thumbs moved. She looked down at the screen with a tender, secretive smile as she waited for a reply.

"Oho! Greta," said Bob, leering at her from across the tiny room where he was perched on Spencer's knee, Spencer's hand rubbing slow circles on his back under his t-shirt. "Are you texting Jeremy again?"

"Shut the fuck up," said Greta, looking up with a smile, this one harder with a little edge to it, but her cheeks were flushed just the slightest bit pinker than normal. Brendon pushed down his disappointment and gave up on apologising. He quickly suggested changing places so Bob could tease her better; Bob leapt at the chance and Spencer looked at Brendon thoughtfully before he smiled and patted his knee in invitation.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Brendon leaned back on the pillows carefully, holding his coffee steady. Greta sipped at hers, computer momentarily abandoned.

"So," she said, "how did you end up at the bar last night? I thought you couldn't make it?"

"I wanted to see you," Brendon said. It was true. Greta was like magic. She was beautiful and strong, surrounding herself with things that worked, either naturally or as the result of her prodding and shaping. Greta liked things with smoothed over edges, intact and delightful.

"Spencer rang while you were in the bathroom," Greta said. "He's home early. He says he needs to see you."

Brendon drank down the rest of his coffee in silence.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

It wasn't like Brendon never saw Greta again. He did, of course he did. She started talking to him, smiling at him. Things were going better for the band, with fewer fights between him and Ryan. He couldn't help but think that the two were connected, the band's amicability and Greta's sudden friendliness. He'd never met a person who loved harmony as much as Greta did.

One night at a party, late in the garden where Brendon should have been able to see stars, not dirty smudges reflecting orange, she sat next to him on the garden lounger, squeezing in against him as he shuffled over. It rocked precariously but Brendon didn't care, tearing his eyes away from the smoggy underbelly of the sky to look at Greta. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in a semblance of disarray, her arms bare and soft looking. She leaned forward, lips brushing over his in a gentle touch, pulling away to consider his face, his reaction, before leaning in again, kissing harder this time. Her lips were slick, almost waxy, with gloss, and she tasted like some fruity cocktail over beer. She was perfect. Brendon felt his body catch alight, libido turning over like he'd almost forgotten how. He touched just his fingertips to Greta's jaw, a touch that was all delicate anticipation.

It took him a moment to realise that her gasp of breath was from a bucket of water streaming over them, not from his skill. They were drenched. She pulled back, furious, her dress clinging to her and her hair flattened. The bucket dangled loosely from Jon's hand and his eyes widened in horror as he took in the sight of Greta's clenched fists. He ran and she followed, less of a run and more of a stalk. Brendon could hear him babbling apologies over his shoulder all the way into the house, but Greta didn't even look at him. He wiped a smear of lipstick off his own mouth, tipped his head back against the headrest again and ignored the water soaking his jeans and making his hair drip in his eyes.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

"I should go," said Brendon, putting his cup down on the bedside table. There was a coaster there, but he put it straight onto the varnish, wanting to leave a mark to annoy her in a fit of misplaced pique.

"Yeah," said Greta. She looked at him for a long moment and Brendon wondered what she saw. If she saw how he was always broken, too broken and stretched thin to be patched up and restored to the sort of glossy finish she liked. "Why did you come to see me play last night?" she asked again. Brendon looked away, down at his hands and the ring of bruises around one wrist from the argument he'd had with Ryan and Jon just the day before. Spencer had stepped in, physically inserting himself into the space between them, shielding Brendon from their anger and hurt, Ryan's especially. Brendon should have been angry in return, but he had been shaking, happy to feel Spencer's arms around him when it was all over. It washed the feel of Ryan's bony fingers digging into his skin. Spencer was frayed thin too, but he covered it with a smooth slipcover of amiability, dropping it only if he and Brendon were alone. Brendon never felt like he had to pretend with Spencer.

"I wanted," he started, then stopped. He'd been thinking more about words as he wrote more and moved away from Ryan's patterns, but this was hard to find the framing for. "I wanted to see you, and see what you did. You're always so together. Perfect." Greta nodded, like she could hear all the ways he was envious. All the ways he wanted her.

"I was happy to see you," she said. "It seems like we always meet at the wrong time." He was astute enough to know that she wasn't just talking about right now; it was about the whole mismatched saga of the time they'd known each other.

"Yeah," he said, "and right now... things aren't so good." He knew she would have heard rumours, she'd know what he was talking about.

"Go home to Spencer," she said. Brendon sighed and fumbled for his clothes where he'd dropped them on the floor before crawling into bed. He could half-remember the melancholy note to his ramblings before he'd passed out, the way her hand had run over his back like she was hoping to find an instrument panel or a way of tuning him better.

"Maybe," he said, "one day." He fell silent. He knew that even if his band wasn't falling apart, even if he wasn't broken deep down somewhere, even if it wasn't for Spencer, he knew that there would never be a maybe for them.

"Yeah," she said. He could tell she didn't believe it either.


End file.
